


The Memory Lane Job

by cheap-perfume-and-gasoline (burning_books)



Category: Leverage
Genre: Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Disowned by family, Eliot Needs A Hug, Gen, Minor Spoilers, Post-Episode: s05e11 The Low Low Price Job, technically checks a couple other of my boxes too, very slight found family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:21:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28964559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burning_books/pseuds/cheap-perfume-and-gasoline
Summary: Eliot Spencer takes a walk down memory lane. Except his Memory Lane is bloodstained, littered with bones and broken glass and bullet shells, and probably hiding a couple land mines.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	The Memory Lane Job

"I wish I'd had another son."

It echoed through Eliot's head for the thousandth time since he left. He's eighteen and already on the run, no real home, his bed a shitty twin bunk at basic camp. The night before he left was the night he finally told his father he'd enlisted. He'd dreaded the moment for weeks, and rightfully so. He showed up for his first day with a shiny purple bruise on his cheekbone and aches all up his back and arms; his father's parting gifts. 

He missed the Oklahoma air but he didn't miss the screams that tore through it when he wasn't good enough, when he'd left out a dish or stayed out too late or didn't do the chores just so. He missed his bed but he didn't miss the blood and tears stained across his pillowcase. He almost missed the dusty air of the hardware store, because it was the only place his father was ever something like kind to him. 

Eliot just tried to block out his father's voice in his head, screaming, "Don't you ever come back here, boy! I don't never wanna see your face here again! You hear me? Never!" over the sound of his truck's engine. He focused on the aches in his body instead. It was easier that way. It hurt less. 

His drill sergeant barking orders was already familiar; Eliot never so much as blinked when he'd get up in his face and yell 'til the cows came home.

He made friends easy, always had, and that was a blessing. Most of them were in awe of him, of how serene he always seemed when they'd all get punished for some infraction or another. He taught them how to hold still, even out their breathing, block out the noise and focus on their own heartbeat 'til the storm passed.

The bruises healed.

It wasn't like Eliot never got injured during his time in the service. He'd taken more than his fair share of bullets and blows. It always felt unfair to him that some of his buddies only ever got shot once, but they bled out and somehow he kept breathing. But it weren't no good to think on it too hard for too long, or he'd get it into his head to take his own last bullet - sooner rather than later.

"I wish I'd had another son."

It was one of the last things he had of his father, that parting wish. He was long since out of basic, doing things no man should ever have to do. But it was for his country, for his brothers, or so he thought. Bad choices are still bad choices, though, no matter who you make 'em for, and they still tore at his mind every night as he struggled to find rest.

Part of him wondered, in the small hours of night, what that other son was like. The man he wasn't, couldn't be. The other Eliot, the one who stayed back home and took over the hardware store from his daddy when the old man got too old to run the damn thing. The other Eliot had a ring on his finger and a pretty girl on his arm and a kid or two clinging to his jeans by now.

The real Eliot, lying in the dark in Myanmar or Pakistan or some other forgotten, war-torn place, dust in his hair and blood on his clothes, just shut his eyes and tried not to miss the smell of Oklahoma summer.

"I wish I'd had another son."

Those weren't the only words his father gave him. They were just the ones he hung onto, that made it easier to stay on the run. Made it easier to pull the trigger, draw the knife, watch the lights go out.

He carried those words like a weight across his shoulders, like a cross on his back, even though it'd been a long time since he believed in Jesus or even set foot in a church. Eliot Spencer was long past deserving any kind of grace, and no amonut of prayer would forgive the things he'd done. He didn't care so much about getting to heaven, anyhow, didn't want paradise no more. He just wanted some rest.

"I wish I'd had another son."

He was out of the military now, and doing worse things for worse reasons and worse people, but at least the money was better.

His father's words still haunted him, though, right along with all the other ghosts that came to his mind in the dead of night. The boy his father wanted died a long time ago, and there weren't no getting him back. He lay buried in the cemetery up the street from his childhood home, and Eliot almost envied him. Almost.

"I wish I'd had another son."

It quit mattering so much, the way his father used to look at him - eyes hot with contempt and disappointment - but the old man's gaze was still burned into Eliot's mind. Sometimes it even busted out so Eliot could see his father's eyes in the mirror instead of his own.

But he couldn't feel the heat anymore, just the cold water from the tap as he rinsed out another injury. Then the sting of disinfectant and the bright, sharp stab of the needle as he stitched the wound.

It didn't matter. None of it did. He just wanted some rest.

"I wish I'd had another son."

The way Nathan Ford looked at Eliot changed everything. They were two men who'd lost - one a father, one a son - and it tore out of both of them like a bullet through the heart.

Things started to mean something again. Eliot knew they'd both feel the pain of their losses forever, a dull ache under the skin that never quite went dead. But that didn't stop Eliot from taking his second chance and clinging to it like driftwood in a hurricane. He did his damnedest to do Nate proud, even though he was drunk off his ass most of the time and a cold, manipulative jerk the rest.

Eliot would kill for Nate and the new family he'd stitched together. He'd put his body on the line if it meant they'd get out unhurt. He had a sister again, a brother, and even something resembling a father. 

"I wish I'd had another son."

Those weren't the only words his father gave him. Those were just the words that made Eliot fight harder than he ever had for the people who did bother to care about him the way he cared about them. He took the blows with something like a smile on his lips, because they came for the people he loved, not from them.

But years and years before, before Eliot knew how dark everything would go, before he even knew the full ire of his father's rage, the old man gave him another set of words.

"No matter what, you can always come home."

So eventually, Eliot blew the dust off his father's advice, got in his truck, and drove down the streets that hadn't been familiar for a long, long time. He'd double-checked beforehand, made sure the old man hadn't kicked it. Stubborn brute swore he'd die in that house, and sure as hell his address was still the same, and damn close to where the team's last job had taken them, in more ways than one. Eliot brought a peace offering - a six-pack of the old man's favorite. The light was on in the kitchen window and he could just make out the sound of the football game playing on the TV.

He knocked at the door and called out for his father.

There was no answer, just the Oklahoma air thick with humidity and cricket songs. 

No acknowledgement, not even a rustle or a footstep inside. Eliot tried to ignore the tightness in his jaw and the sting in his eyes. The old man could still hurt him after all.

"No matter what, you can always come home."

Eliot Spencer left the six-pack on the porch, got back in his truck, and drove on towards home.


End file.
